There was a man in our town
who gave away golf balls.
He always wore a gray fedora
and a white shirt
with a bright floral bowtie.
His name was Mr. Peters.
He owned the hardware store.
I think he gave away the golf balls
because, in reality,
he didn't want to own a hardware store
but a sports shop.
When he grew old and blind
he lost the hardware store
and had to move in with
a daughter who went bowling
every night, leaving him alone.
He got disoriented one night
and wandered onto the highway,
offering golf balls to passing semis.
One of 'em ran him over.
There wasn't much left of him,
so he was buried in a golf bag.
Everyone agreed it seemed appropriate.
But before the accident,
before he went blind and
lost the hardware store,
Mr. Peters told me an interesting tale.
It seems as a young man he
hunted jaguars in Brazil.
He put jaguar bait on
strips of duct tape,
and when the jaguars
took the bait they got
entangled in the duct tape
and collapsed from nervous
exhaustion.
Then he sold the jaguars
to Indian maharajahs
and Hollywood starlets.
The interesting part,
according to Mr. Peters,
was that there are no jaguars
in Brazil.
When I asked him why he would
tell such a nonsensical story
in the first place he replied:
"I give away golf balls,
not valid information."
He may have meant something
by that,
but I prefer to think
he just liked to hear himself
talk.
